Yes, still have a few grains of sand between
the prongs of old rings, a mirage of green
their central jewel. A lop-sided, map like stain
that won’t be washed off however hard one tries -
sits on the metal, can’t tell if it gains
or loses – do metal values remain
proof to mirages, things that characterise
evanescent? Bits of grit still crumbs the toes
and won’t be dusted off. In pockets of clothes
suddenly against fingers looking for
something different. A stab, hard to understand -
easily confused with pain, gone before
it can be classified. Just once and no more.
They turn to what they must, the work in hand.